Smoke wafts up from the log cabin’s stone chimney, momentarily thawing the winter’s thick blanket of fog, revealing a secluded valley.  Statuesque spruce trees surround the ancient cabin and cling to the valley cliffsides, swaying in the breeze, keeping watch over the land.  The cold air stings and smells faintly of damp soil and moss.  Along a dirt path, a rope bridge sways precariously, threatening to break at any moment.  The gorge below is shielded from view by the layers of fog, but rushing water can be heard crashing against the riverbanks.  Droplets of fresh-tasting, ice-cold water spray into the air as a waterfall pours into the deep gorge, disappearing into the fog.  An eagle’s loud cry disrupts the peace, echoing off the valley walls.  There’s a sudden gust of bitter cold wind and the faint glow of firelight peaking through the cabin’s windows falters before dying out, leaving the home in darkness.  The last wisp of smoke disappears and the fog returns once more, hiding any last sign of the little cabin.